


eden

by debilitas



Series: clearing out drafts [6]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, First Time, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Trans Charles Smith, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debilitas/pseuds/debilitas
Summary: Dumb bastard, Arthur thinks, taking a long swig. It doesn’t wash away the taste of another man from his mouth.Kill ya, he should.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: clearing out drafts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988098
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	eden

**Author's Note:**

> unfinished/abandoned draft of charles getting some cowboy head. yeehaw

With a sigh befitting a much older man, Arthur pours himself a cup of day-old coffee. Figures he must’ve learned it from Hosea, who was always real good at betraying emotion with a single exhale. 

This morning, it’s confusion. Embarrassment. Bit of a headache, too.

He makes an empty promise to himself: no more moonshine. Especially no more stolen moonshine that tastes like hellfire and makes him kiss folks he shouldn’t.

 _Dumb bastard_ , Arthur thinks, taking a long swig. It doesn’t wash away the taste of another man from his mouth. _Kill ya, he should._

With each sobering swallow, the previous night becomes clearer. He recalls being the first to taste the drink from the clear bottle, damn near keeling over from the impact in his throat. The warmth it left in his belly, how easy it made everything seem. 

Charles had been sitting so close— too close, moving after every sip. Firelight casting shadow across his face, making honey brown eyes shine like stars.

Something had always been there, growing between them like a weed. A weed they’d ignored while it grew, eventually consuming the landscape. Watered by stolen moonshine, it forced its way up and out of his throat. Bloomed from his mouth it did, searching for its sun in Charles Smith.

But now morning has arrived, and its sun is not as welcoming. 

Charles sits across from him, smoking the bare bones of a cigarette. Hardly more than a butt, Arthur recognizes it from the night before. Same as his cup of cold coffee, it serves as a reminder, a way to cling to what’s gone.

The charred remains of a campfire divides them, black as oil. It used to be beautiful, burning strong and bright against the inky night. Arthur had lost himself in it, gaze following the embers while his fingers tangled through hair, more bundle of sensation than man.

It’d been heavenly, to retract himself from the ache in his bones and the burn of booze. To melt away from the weight of his own body and feel purely. No distractions; just him, Charles, and a fire they started themselves.

“Y’ever been with a feller like that?” Arthur asks, because he’s running out of coffee. 

Charles gnaws on the words like chewing tobacco. “Not as much as I’d like.”

Arthur nods in understanding. Knows there’s things, like spending the night with women, that are supposed to be out in the open. Encouraged, even. Men meet them in bustling bars and brag about it after, handing out every intimate detail for no charge. 

He’s not stupid— scratch that, actually. Arthur’s sure he’s about as dumb as a sack of rocks, but not so dumb to not know he and Charles certainly ain’t the first of their kind. 

“Ain’t so uncommon,” he adds, more for Charles than himself. Way he figures it, when the time comes for the Devil to tally up his misdeeds, it won’t be the fellers he’s kissed he’ll burn for. 

Weren’t no such thing as an outlaw philosopher, yet here he tries.

“Not common enough,” is Charles’ reply, more a reminder than disagreement. It’s a glance toward Valentine’s saloon and the pretty girl he’d spoken to all night. To his very first celebration with the gang, when he rejected a lady so politely she didn’t even realize it happened.

Arthur takes one final sip, lets the cup hit the ground, and acquaints himself with the truth: Charles Smith likes men, and so does he. That it wasn’t just real strong moonshine that drew them together, made ‘em do what they did. 

What a coincidence it is that two fellers like them happen to be sharing a life running from the law and sleeping in dirt. How easy it would’ve been for them to miss each other, for some smooth talking man other than Dutch to recruit Charles and take last night from him.

The night comes back to Arthur, and it comes clear. 

They’d been heading back to Horseshoe after a job, pockets only slightly heavier than when they’d departed. Though they tried to outrun the setting sun, they failed, grunting to each other as they set up camp.

Arthur sat under a tree twice as wide as his body, hat tipped over the bridge of his nose. He was running on little sleep and an empty belly, a fresh cut across his cheek. Real shallow, a quick nick from some O’Driscoll bastard’s blade, but it stung something fierce. 

Just as the horizon turned golden, a shot rang out. He was quick to his feet, a practiced hand on his hip and ready to shoot before he could absorb the scene. 

Charles stood at the crest of the hill they’d tucked themselves into, still peering down the scope of a rifle. Shoulders squared, eyes squinting, mouth pressed into a thin line. There was a breeze in the air, the last few gasps of winter’s frigid breath, and it tousled the man’s hair as he stood.

That same wind rustled the grey feathers of their dinner as Charles skinned the turkey with expert hands. Real big and just as steady, they made quick work of the bird. Arthur was content to watch, always better at dismantling bigger, less delicate game.

They cooked and ate in a comfortable silence, sharing space and labor without the need for communication. Just six months together and they worked as well as lifelong partners, if not better. 

The sun shrank behind the horizon, taking the hum of the forest’s life with it. Lit by moonlight and a blazing fire, they broke into the moonshine Arthur took from the same feller that’d sliced up his face. Shared it selflessly as they finally spoke. Exchanged stories and anecdotes, laughed at things that weren’t funny. 

Arthur isn’t sure if it was before or after a log in the fire shifted, scaring them shitless with a resounding _pop_. What he can remember, however, is sitting on cold hard dirt. The dull ache of a rock underneath his thigh, the feel of the bottle in his hand. 

Charles had laid down next to him, propped on an elbow and smiling how he did only when he was drunk. He smelled like cigarettes and booze, felt warmer than flame when Arthur touched him. On the leg—

— No. On the arm. It’d been the bulk of his arm, ‘cause Charles was the one to grab Arthur’s thigh. Squeezed the muscle he did, like he was impressed. 

Then it was hands everywhere, exploring more and more flesh. One of Charles’ palms splayed across Arthur’s back when they started to kiss. Hungry and hurried like they were running out of time. 

In a way, they were. They threw themselves further, with the same urgency and ferociousness as when they ran from the law. 

It wasn’t just hands and lips— not for long, at least. Charles had slotted one broad hand between his legs and Arthur certainly had no objections. Nor did he complain when that same hand tore at the zipper to his jeans like it committed an offense.

Must’ve been a matter of seconds, but it felt like decades he waited for Charles’ fingers to navigate the buttons to his union suit and wrap around his cock. Arthur, lonely and even more drunk, went down like a felled tree. Collapsed into Charles, heaving against the skin of the man’s neck.

With a vice grip on the tense muscle of Charles’ back he thrusted into the tight fist, babbling to God and Heaven above. Too dry, but he didn’t care. His sex didn’t seem to either, sending him over the edge in a matter of minutes. 

“Long time,” Arthur remembers saying, though he ain’t too sure now that it’d been audible through his drunken slur. Charles accepted the weak excuse, and it wasn’t too long before they both succumbed to drunken exhaustion.

Now, cloaked in morning light and mostly sober, he misses Charles. Misses his hands and his mouth, humid breath in his ear as they clung to one another. 

It dawns on Arthur that he hadn’t returned the favor. Too drunk and weak to give the man a hand— no wonder the air is thick. He’s indebted.

Even in his debt, he wants more. Craves the taste and feel of the man that might just be his best friend, unclouded by booze. Wants to test the limits, go _further_ , beyond hands and burning kisses.

Arthur feels warmth spread across his face, and has to readjust his position. Thinking really ain’t for him, he decides. 

“It’s healing good,” Charles says, gesturing with the burning end of his cigarette. “Should be gone by tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Arthur replies, vacant. The sharp end of an O’Driscoll’s knife seems such a distant memory, suffocated by wandering hands and climax. 

It occurs to Arthur, when Charles crushes the remains of the cigarette and starts to move, that he don’t want to pack up camp. Doesn’t want to abandon the Eden they’ve made between two hills for a long ride back home.

They got unfinished business, the two of them. And something in his thick skull tells him if he doesn’t do anything now, he never will. 

Driven by something braver than he is, Arthur stands, and follows Charles to the very same tree he’d reclined under. Stash your supplies in high branches, Charles tells him. So animals won’t get into them.

Arthur already knows, but he pretends he doesn’t, just so Charles will tell him again. Playing dumb has its perks. 

“If we leave now, we’ll make it back to Horseshoe before noon,” Charles says, tugging his pack down. Same make and damn near the same contents as Arthur’s, but smaller. ‘Cause he’s far better at packing up, giving each item its own place while Arthur tosses things inside with abandon. 

Arthur’s palms are sweaty, despite the morning chill. He stands behind Charles, at the back he’d dug his nails into mere hours prior. Before he can think better of it, he flattens a palm against the man’s spine, feeling the muscle tense. 

“Don’t think I wanna go back just yet,” he mumbles. At least he’s being honest: Horseshoe ain’t home and it never will be. 

Charles stills. “Where do you want to be, Arthur Morgan?”

“Don’t know,” he lies, because an honest streak ain’t so easy to keep up while sober. He wonders, briefly, if there’s any of that moonshine left. Just to make things a little simpler. 

He wants to be back in the dirt, hands threaded through dark hair and a tight fist around his dick. Wants to last longer, have enough sense to keep going until they both cross that finish line. He wants his first time with Charles to be more clear than murky, so he can commit it to memory, to a page of his journal. 

Charles turns to him. His face is much harder to lie to. 

“Guess I want more,” Arthur confesses, like it was ever a secret. 

Charles sighs, brows knit, but he’s forcing back a quirk of the mouth. Trying not to smile, to give into temptation.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then show me,” is Arthur’s reply, because before he was old he was young, and could talk his way through just about anything. Charm men and women much too good looking for him out of their money and maybe a little extra. “Owe you somethin’, don’t I?”

Though he ain’t much of a smooth talker anymore, he never did forget how to kiss. 

Layering over Charles’ bottom lip with his own, he backs him into the tree. Feels their teeth click against one another as he slips both hands under the man’s shirt, squeezing the excess around his hips.

He hides so much under that damned blue shirt, replacing the curves of dense muscle with a vague silhouette. Arthur ain’t sure if it’s a shame to keep it all so hidden, or if he should feel privileged for the access to it.

Charles is gripping the sides of Arthur’s face as they race to devour the other, a thumb pressing into the fresh cut on his cheek. He holds onto the discomfort, uses it as an anchor.

Kissing Charles sober is more grounded, but no less all-consuming. Instead of the sensations blending together into one pleasurable haze he experiences each one in vivid detail, drowns in every separate wave. Hears the desperate, low breaths they both force through their noses, the sounds of boots scraping the roots of the tree. Feels the marred skin of Charles’ cheek scrape against his beard, the coarse material between his fingers as he yanks that shirt ever higher.

With hungry hands he paws at the expanse of the man’s torso, over scars long since healed and the shape of his belly. It’s nice, he thinks, somewhere in his mind that can still do so. To touch a body that mirrors his own more than it doesn’t. 

They’re both solid, hardy men that’ve been shot and cut more than their fair share. So much, in fact, that it doesn’t draw attention. They need no explanation nor justification for one another’s form. They can simply _be_.

Charles’ jeans go down easy, as do Arthur’s knees. Blue meets brown as they watch each other, suddenly so very aware of the scene they find themselves in.

Last night could’ve been nothing. Something to blame on moonshine and too much time alone. This, though? It’s different, stronger; a leap off a cliff that can’t be climbed. 

Charles knows it, too. Probably better than Arthur could with that mind of his. The man’s chest heaves to the same rhythm as Arthur’s. _In, then out. In…_

Charles’ hand finds its place on the back of his head. Threads through the mussed hair, skull slotting perfectly into the palm. Then he pulls.

_...Out._

Arthur is quick to open his mouth. Licks at the wet heat, fast and eager, feeling slick arousal in the curls of his beard. A little bitter, flesh and sweat, the taste of man and sex. 

“Easy, Arthur,” comes the even hum of Charles’ voice above. The hand turns gentle, touching his head like it’s something to be cherished. “Slow.”

The part of him, that one mean bit that never could be beat out, reminds Arthur how he hates being told what to do. Must be the street kid in him, the starving orphan that wouldn’t be bossed around by nobody. 

But the command on Charles’ lips sounds so damn sweet it’s hardly one at all, so he listens. Guides the blunt tip of his tongue through the warmth, soft as a man like him can manage. 

A quick glance shows Charles at his most content, laid back against the tree with his chin raised high. He takes deep breaths, real even, with one hand gripping his own chest. Looks like Heaven, he does, better than any painting. 

Even at his most vulnerable he manages to stay composed. Only the grip on Arthur’s head betrays him, occasionally squeezing or knotting through long hair.


End file.
